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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27313390">Body and Blood</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper'>timehopper</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Demons, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Magic, Blood and Gore, Demon Summoning, Gore, M/M, Mutilation, Rated for gore not sex, Self-Mutilation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:49:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,376</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27313390</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Adrestian Army at Derdriu's doorstep, Claude has to resort to the one thing he had been warned to never meddle with: Fódlan blood magic.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fodlan Frights Halloween Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Body and Blood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/howlish/gifts">howlish</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Howl for the Fodlan Frights Halloween Exchange! He had sooo many good prompts, but I decided in the end to go with the first one: "demonic contract goes gorey." I loooove gore, but I don't get to write it very often, so I'm so pleased I got to do it for this exchange!</p><p>And huge thank you to Omo, who made some <a href="https://twitter.com/matrihomies/status/1325201634109100032">amazing and gorgeous art</a> to go with this fic! Please click the link and check it out!</p><p>Once again, please keep in mind: since this is gore, PLEASE read the tags and proceed cautiously. If blood isn't your thing, then you may want to turn back.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The report comes in the middle of the afternoon, delivered by a limping soldier, clutching his side where his armor has broken and fallen away. The other nobles scoff at the blood on the carpet, seeing it only as a sign of incompetence – but Claude knows it for so much more.</p><p>There is precious little time left.</p><p>The moment the report is given, Claude stands from the roundtable and exits the room. The worst has come to pass, and the Adrestian Empire is at their doorstep. They’re a day away, at best, and Derdriu is left undefended, her forces decimated in a last-ditch effort to help keep the neighbouring territories safe. There is nothing left to do, now, except run.</p><p>And so that is what Claude does. He runs – not from this land, nor from the manor he has come to call home: instead, he runs deeper into it, sweeping through halls and bursting through doors until he reaches the gardens, the graveyard, the chapel tucked away as far from outside eyes as it can be. </p><p>He only stops once, slipping inside the chapel to gather the items he has stored beneath the long-abandoned pews: a bag he ties to his sash, a silken scarf, a silver dagger in a leather sheath. He leaves just as quickly as he comes, little more than disturbed dust left in his wake.</p><p>He ducks past the back of the chapel, boots treading carefully but deliberately across the overgrown path. He stops at the foot of a small mausoleum and looks up, eyes fixing on the crescent moon engraved into the marble door.</p><p>The symbol of his family. The mark of his blood. The Crest of Riegan. </p><p>This is said to be the resting place of his ancestors. Generations upon generations of dukes and duchesses, all sleeping beneath the ground behind this great marble door. Every single one born of the same blood, every single one emptied of it and laid to rest together.</p><p>Claude knows better.</p><p>He pushes aside the mausoleum door. Beside it is a shelf, and upon that shelf a silver candle-holder. He takes it and lights the candle wedged within with a whispered incantation. Its light is weak, creating more shadows than it banishes, but it is enough for now. It will guide him well as he descends. </p><p>Claude steps forward. The door closes behind him, leaving him alone in near-total darkness. He holds the candle up, searching, and finally descends the stairs into the crypt below. </p><p>He moves slowly at first, taking each stair one at a time, careful not to fall; but his pace soon quickens, faster and faster as his heat beats wildly against his ribs. He shields the candle's flame with a hand, bracing it against the air as he moves deeper and deeper underground. </p><p>At last, Claude comes to a great door at the bottom of the stairs, a candle set into the wall at either side of it. He lights them, touching his flame to their wicks, and watches as their flickering light illuminates a second carving of the Crest of Riegan, etched into the stone. </p><p>He bites his thumb. Draws blood. Presses it to the door, and it parts for him. </p><p>The moment he steps foot into the small room, the candles lining the wall blink into life. Upon the floor are stains of what Claude can only assume must be blood, nearly black and so deeply soaked into the stone floor they’d be impossible to remove. He kneels upon that floor now, before a marble altar, and reaches into the bag he’d fetched from the chapel to cake his fingers in chalk.</p><p>He drags his fingers over the damp stone in long, careful movements, tracing the curves and patterns he’s come to know so well. The same ones he’d seen carved into the mausoleum doors, and the same ones he’d seen branded upon the back of his mother’s neck. </p><p>He draws the last line in the Crest and encircles it, heart racing with every passing second. He thinks of his mother’s warnings, still whispering in the back of his mind: <em>Fódlan is a cursed place, </em>she had told him. <em>The blood that runs through your veins is the blood of demons. It protects us, but at the cost of our freedom. Do not use it carelessly.</em> </p><p>He thinks of the brand on her neck, stark black against her otherwise flawless skin, seared into her as a mark of the price she had paid to escape – and Claude almost laughs. It’s funny, how desperation has pushed him: here he is now, doing the one thing his mother had cautioned him against and warned him never to do. </p><p>A part of him is scared. A bigger part of him knows this is his only option. He does not have the strength to save himself on his own, and so if he must borrow another’s power using this cursed magic that runs through his veins, then so be it. </p><p>He draws the dagger from its sheath, holds out his hand, and slashes himself open.</p><p>Claude does not flinch from the pain. He keeps his eyes resolutely open as his blood spills onto the stone floor, joining so many others’ before him. He holds his ground when wind begins to whip up around him, and does not blink when the circle below him illuminates, nor does he when his Crest flashes before his eyes. All he does is pull the silk scarf from the pocket he’d tucked it into and wrap his bleeding hand in it.</p><p>And then, as the last drop of blood drips from the saturated cloth, the world lurches on its side, the air rends itself in two, and something emerges. </p><p>It comes from the rend in the air, black hands and hooked claws reaching for Claude even as he stumbles backwards, the force of the wind knocking him to the ground. They’re followed by teeth, sharp and white, flashing in the darkness; and then slitted eyes, red and glowing and framed by black sclera. </p><p>The demon’s feet touch the ground, light and graceful. Its claws do not smudge the chalk it stands on, even as it settles and steps forward. And then it breathes, a loud, rough exhale, relief and warning all in one.</p><p>“Finally,” the demon says. “I’m finally free.”</p><p>He looks up, glowing eyes peeking out from behind fiery red hair. When the demon stands up straight, he pushes those bangs back and turns his piercing gaze on Claude. </p><p>“Well, well,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting someone so handsome to summon me.” </p><p>He steps forward. Claude gets to his feet, a touch unsteady, and moves back toward the door. The demon pauses, raising his hands and placing them behind his head. His lips curl back to reveal his teeth, too many and too sharp. “Aw, don’t tell me you’re <em>scared</em>. You’re the one who wanted me here, remember?”</p><p>Claude stands his ground. The dagger is still in his hand; his grip tightens around it instinctively. He isn’t afraid of the demon – quite the opposite, really. The blood thrumming through his veins sings for the creature it had summoned, drawing Claude inexplicably to it. If anything, he’s afraid of his own reaction, his own desire to reach for the demon and let it consume him. </p><p>He lets his eyes move from the demon’s face to take in the rest of his appearance. He’s… well, if the demon had described Claude as handsome, then Claude can only describe him as <em>sublime</em> – beautiful, but terrifying, with the strange, stone-like scales that cover the backs of his forearms and his legs from ankle to mid-thigh. He’s well-built, strong, muscles visible even under the scales, and has humanlike proportions, even if something in his silhouette is off. It isn’t even the sharp spikes that line his back and his thick, scaled tail that throw Claude off either, large and gnarled as they are; nor is it the horns, curling from his temples and ending in razor-sharp peaks. No, Claude can’t quite place what it is that’s bothering him – not until he catches sight of the engraved metal plate set into the demon’s chest, just below his collarbone.</p><p>Claude’s eyes move back up. He grits his teeth, grips the dagger even tighter.  “You’re not who I meant to summon.” </p><p>The demon smirks, a flash of teeth glinting in the candlelight.</p><p>“No,” he says. “I’m not.” </p><p>He taps the metal plate. Claude’s eyes trace the curve of the Crest engraved upon it, its scythe-like points sharp and dangerous as the spikes on the demon’s back. He recognizes that symbol, one hidden away in the ancient books tucked into the deepest, darkest corners of the Riegan library.</p><p>This is the mark of Death: the Crest of Gautier.</p><p>“Who are you?” Claude asks. </p><p>The demon advances. He’s not fast, but he seems it, fluid in his movements as he pushes into Claude’s space and reaches for his hand, the one wrapped in silk. “You can call me Sylvain,” he says. “Sylvain of House Gautier. And you…” </p><p>He slips a hooked talon beneath the scarf, peeling the blood-soaked fabric back. He looks down, and his smile falters, flickering for a moment like the embers left in a dying fire. “You’re one of Riegan’s.”</p><p>The smile slips back into place as soon as its gone, and Sylvain removes the cloth entirely, letting it fall to the ground. Claude follows his gaze to the wound on his hand, closed and scarred-over. It will be gone completely in a matter of minutes, healed by the power of his blood. </p><p>“That’s some powerful magic you’ve got there,” Sylvain says. “Makes me wonder why you summoned me at all. Or tried to summon Riegan, I guess.”</p><p>He steps back, eyes never leaving Claude’s, even as he hoists himself up to sit on the altar. His tail sweeps over the marble, disturbing the dust that had gathered on its surface. He leans back, resting his weight on his hands, and watches Claude expectantly. </p><p>Claude swallows. “I need help,” he says, the words nearly catching in his throat. It’s hard, even after all these years, to admit it. To put his fate – his <em>faith</em> – in another’s hands. “There’s a war. And my magic may be strong – strong enough to heal my wounds – but it’s not enough. It won’t keep me alive.” </p><p>He clenches his fist. There’s no tug of irritated, poorly-healed skin. Sylvain watches the motion, a curious tilt of the head accompanying his interest. </p><p>“No,” he agrees. “And making a deal with Riegan to strengthen your healing magic wouldn’t have gotten you very far. Guess you lucked out that I showed up, huh?” </p><p>He holds his hand out to Claude. Claude frowns, but he steps forward anyway, though he does not reach to take Sylvain’s hand. “Why <em>did</em> you show up?”</p><p>There is no smile on Sylvain’s face as Claude approaches the altar. For the first time since he’d appeared, he looks serious – solemn, even. “Hell’s not a pretty place,” he says quietly. “And the company’s not much fun. Let’s just say… I needed out.” </p><p>Claude’s eyes narrow. There’s something Sylvain isn’t telling him, some secret he refuses to divulge – but that, ironically, inclines him toward trusting the demon.</p><p>Claude knows all too well what it’s like to keep secrets. To run away. To escape.</p><p>Sylvain sets his hand down. Claude is in front of him now, standing between his spread legs, looking up into his red, red eyes. “And you need me to <em>stay</em> out.” </p><p>“Sharp, aren’t you?” But Sylvain is smiling again, a little pull at the corner of his mouth. “But you got it in one. Your blood is keeping me anchored here, but I can’t stay unless you let me. So…”</p><p>He leans forward and reaches up, the back of a claw brushing Claude’s cheek. “What’ll it be, handsome? I can make you stronger – give you the power to destroy whatever enemy’s knocking down your door.” He caresses Claude’s jaw, takes it in his hand. Sylvain’s palm is smooth, his skin cool to the touch. “All you have to do is make a deal with me. It’ll be painful, and I can’t quite make you immortal, but I can help you live a very, very long time.”  </p><p>He’s close now, so close he doesn’t need to speak above a whisper. Claude looks into the demon’s eyes, so unlike his own, and yet so similar. When he looks into Sylvain’s eyes, he sees fear. Desperation. Hope. Everything Claude feels, and everything Claude tries to hide. </p><p>He takes Sylvain’s hand. “What do you need me to do?” </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sylvain strips Claude down atop the altar, carefully undoing every clasp and tie before pulling his clothes off and setting them aside. Claws scrape against skin, but never break it; Claude shivers at the touch, at the cold air; he trembles against the chilly marble altar as Sylvain pushes him back against it, naked and exposed, and steadies himself, at last, under the intense, focused gaze of the demon kneeling over him.</p><p>Sylvain’s touch is gentle, all things considered. Those claws, those teeth – they could rend Claude’s flesh and tear him apart in an instant, should Sylvain so desire. But he’s allowed Claude to keep his dagger within arms’ reach, so that me might defend himself. It’s a silent acknowledgement of the risk Claude is putting himself in – or perhaps it’s a show of confidence. Claude doesn’t know (though he likes both options), and he doesn’t think he’ll need the dagger, but he’s glad for this small courtesy all the same. </p><p>Sylvain slides down his body, skin against skin, until his legs rest atop Claude’s and he can hold him in place. He splays a palm over Claude’s chest, right above his beating heart. The tip of his index finger digs into the divot of Claude’s collarbone, and Sylvain hums. </p><p>“Here,” he says. “This is where we’ll make the contract.” </p><p>Claude watches as Sylvain takes his hand and places it over his own. “How?”</p><p>He doesn’t like the way Sylvain smiles at that, too wide and too sharp. “We carve it into you.” </p><p>He curls his hand. Claude flinches at the sudden pain, at the sight of blood beading along the razor-thin lines Sylvain’s claws have left behind, but he bears it, watching the wounds knit themselves together against his Crest’s light. “And how are we supposed to do that?”</p><p>Sylvain taps his chest. The impact is light, but Claude can feel his flesh strain against it, ready to break again with just a hint of pressure. “The dagger,” he says, reaching with his other hand to slide it across the marble and place it, blade-up, at the base of Claude’s neck. “Take it and brand yourself with the Crest of Riegan.” </p><p><em>Brand yourself.</em> Claude thinks again of his mother, touching the back of her neck as she tucked him into bed nearly two decades ago. She’d told him the story that night – the story of how she’d fled her home to be with Claude’s father. He remembers the smile on her face, rueful but proud, a contradiction in and of itself. Regret for what she had done, but not for what she had gained. </p><p>He releases Sylvain’s hand.</p><p>Takes the dagger instead.</p><p>Presses it to his chest, and carves. </p><p>Claude cries out, mouth splitting open on a scream. The pain is nearly enough to blind him, deep as he cuts into himself. He grips one of the spikes along Sylvain’s back, blunt nails scraping against the gnarled bone. Something slides between his teeth – talons and thick, stone-like scales – and Claude bites down instinctively. </p><p>Sylvain does not flinch, even as the taste of blood floods Claude’s mouth and thick, inky-black rivulets of it spill past his lips. He just watches, eyes wide and shining with rapture, as Claude drags the blade through his flesh, hand steady even when it catches on bone. He carves the crescent moon of Riegan with all the ease of a practiced ritualist, as if his mind has surrendered to his body and all that pushes him now is the base, primal instinct of his demonic blood. </p><p>Sweat trickles past Claude’s hairline, dripping into his eyes and blurring his vision. But that does not stop him: he is guided by the light in Sylvain’s eyes, driven by the need to complete his work and seal this contract. To share himself with Sylvain, to welcome Sylvain’s power into him.</p><p>He bites down harder on Sylvain’s fingers. Pulls the dagger from his body, draws the second crescent. He stabs little lines between them to connect the shapes and drags three more notches along the outer curve.</p><p>He drops the dagger and looks down at himself, flesh flayed open and bone exposed to the frigid underground air. Sylvain yanks his fingers from Claude’s mouth, presses his palm under Claude’s chin, and digs claws into his jaw to force his mouth shut, sealing his black blood inside. </p><p>“Swallow,” Sylvain commands, pushing his head back. And Claude does, unable to stop himself, even as he grabs at Sylvain’s wrist to try and wrench it off him. It’s choking him, pressing into his windpipe and cutting off his breath. But the moment his throat constricts under Sylvain’s hand and Claude swallows the demon’s blood, the hand is gone, and Claude is left to fall limp against the altar, vision fogged and chest heaving with the need for air. </p><p>Something wet passes over his chest, where the Crest of Riegan still stands stark against his skin. Claude looks up weakly, the sight of Sylvain’s thick, forked tongue lapping up the blood pouring from the wound. He licks up every last drop of it as if he were starving and this was his first and only meal.</p><p>And when he’s done, he looks up, lips stained and dripping red. </p><p>“There,” he breathes, and though his voice is quiet, Claude swears he feels it echo in his mind. “We’re almost done. Just a little bit more, and I’ll be yours. I just need one more thing.”</p><p>“And what’s that?” </p><p>Sylvain laughs and sits up, settling on firmly on Claude’s lap, a stone-plated knee on either side of his waist. Claude squirms beneath him; he’d gotten used to how cold Sylvain’s body had been, but something is different now. He’s… warm, where their bodies meet. Skin against skin, flesh against flesh.</p><p>“This.” He reaches up to the plate in his chest, where the Crest of Gautier sits engraved and embedded into him. His claws sink in around it, curling into the seam separating it from the rest of his body. Claude watches in rapt horror and awe as the bones and sinew in his hand flex, and Sylvain pulls the scuffed metal free with a sickening <em>squelch</em>. </p><p>With the plate comes a chunk of flesh and little writhing, wriggling – things. Tendons and veins, perhaps, though they’re more like snakes or worms than anything else. They drip thick, inky blood, every drop of it falling against Claude’s skin: <em>plip, plip, plip</em>. </p><p>Sylvain turns his gaze back on Claude, eyes as dark and empty as the hole in his chest.</p><p>"This will hurt," he says. "But not for long."</p><p>He leans back over Claude, a wicked smile on his face as he presses his clawed fingertip just above the still-bloody Crest of Riegan. Too late, Claude realizes what's about to happen: he opens his mouth, ready to protest–</p><p>But all that escapes him is a scream, loud and nigh-inhuman, as Sylvain carves him open. </p><p>"Shh, shh," the demon soothes, but Claude can barely hear him over the sound of his own pain, his own ragged voice and rushing blood echoing in his ears. </p><p>Sylvain is not fast. He’s careful, deliberate, making sure the cut is clean. He digs in deep, piercing Claude all the way to his heart, or maybe beyond: Claude does not know, he cannot think. All he can do is feel, and scream, and writhe beneath Sylvain’s hands, desperate for the pain to end.</p><p>And end it does, though not until a part of him is torn out. The pain ebbs, but does not vanish, moving from searing hot and sharp to a dull throb. Claude gulps down air, gasping and choking on it, wondering if his lungs can even hold it when there's an open hole between them.</p><p>He lifts his head to look down at himself. He sees too much – blood running off his chest in small rivers, staining the altar below him; viscera, red and shining in the dim candlelight; bone, stark white against his flesh. </p><p>Sylvain smiles in his periphery; Claude looks up just in time to watch as he leans down, the metal plate he'd pulled from his chest still in hand. </p><p>The metal plate that's the exact same size and shape as the hole in Claude's chest. </p><p>Claude's eyes go wide. "No–" </p><p>"Sorry," Sylvain says, though he doesn't sound sorry at all. "It's part of the contract."</p><p>He presses the plate in. </p><p>Whatever was attached to the plate, it's inside Claude now, squirming and twisting and wriggling. <em>They</em>'<em>re </em>inside Claude, curling and undulating and <em>seeking</em>. Claude feels as if he's being torn in half, ripped in two straight down the middle.</p><p>If this is the power of Gautier – the power of Death – then this must be what it feels like to die. </p><p>He can't even hear himself sobbing anymore, so loud is the ringing in his ears. Claude grasps at the altar, nails scraping and breaking against the smooth stone. Somewhere, distantly, he thinks he can feel a hand on his head, brushing sweat-matted hair from his eyes and tucking it back behind his ear. He tries to hold on to that feeling, to cling to it through the pain, the one piece of comfort in a never-ending sea of hurt. </p><p>But then, suddenly, the pain stops. It subsides and settles into something warm – something <em>right</em>, blooming from behind the plate in his chest and settling into his veins. Claude relaxes against the altar, breath at last coming to him quiet and easy.</p><p>When he regains his vision, blurred at first, he sees Sylvain come into focus somewhere above him. </p><p>He sits up, turning just in time to watch Sylvain place the chunk of Claude's flesh he'd removed into the hole in his own chest, right where the metal plate had been. The Crest of Riegan he'd carved into it flashes for a moment, blinding white light prickling at Claude's vision until it fades and settles into simple red marks. </p><p>The seams between Sylvain's flesh and Claude's knit themselves together, scars bubbling and blooming over them. Claude does not know if they’ll heal perfectly, the same way the cut on his hand had.</p><p>But he’s excited to find out.</p><p>"There," Sylvain says, tracing a claw over his mismatched skin. "You’ve accepted the blood of Gautier, and I’ve taken the flesh and blood of Riegan. Now you have my Crest, and I have yours. We’ve been bound."</p><p>He smirks and climbs off Claude, at last. He offers his hand, and this time Claude takes it without hesitation, allowing Sylvain to help him off the altar and to his feet. </p><p>He stands. Sylvain goes to fetch his clothes. And as Claude watches him bend to pick them up, and stretches his arms out to allow Sylvain to redress him, something blooms in his chest, warm and comforting and <em>right</em>. </p><p>And that’s when Claude realizes: he feels… good. Better than he has in ages. He feels stronger, healthier, clearer. Like a fog over his mind has been lifted, or shackles that had bound him to the earth have finally broken open and released him. He feels as if he could take on the Adrestian army and win, with no one but Sylvain by his side. It’s as if a part of him had been missing until now, and this flesh and blood now bound to him have made him whole. </p><p>Sylvain comes around his front to re-clasp his shirt. When he’s done, he runs his hands over it, smoothing the fabric against his chest and only barely managing not to tear it. He smiles, small and almost soft compared to the terrifying, hungry grin that had stretched across his lips as Claude had surrendered himself.</p><p>“Ah, wait. There’s one more thing,” Sylvain says, turning his gaze up to meet Claude’s eye.</p><p>He takes Claude’s face in both hands and pulls him into a kiss, deep and open-mouthed. Claude meets his tongue when it slides into his mouth, and he tastes blood – his own or Sylvain’s, he can’t tell. He finds that he doesn’t care.</p><p>There is no longer any difference.</p><p>Sylvain draws back. Claude chases him, hungry for more, but Sylvain stops him with a single finger pressed to his lips. </p><p>“Your name,” he whispers. “Seems only fair to know it, now that we’re stuck with each other.” </p><p>Claude laughs. He has a point – and it strikes him, then, that Sylvain had gone into this nearly as blind as he had. He had not known who he was making a deal with. Just that he was a descendant of Riegan, or of the first human to make a contract with the ancient demon. </p><p>And so, this time, it’s easy for him to confess: “Claude.” </p><p>“Claude, huh? Claude von Riegan.” Sylvain drags his finger over Claude’s lip. “Hm. You know, I think the name <em>Gautier</em> would suit you better now.” </p><p>He grins, and Claude fights the urge to kiss him again. But he does not have time: the Emperor of Adrestia is coming, and he has preparations to make. </p><p>“Maybe it would,” he says instead, turning to ascend the stairs and pulling Sylvain along with him. “But we still have a war to fight. Let’s see if we can survive, and make that a name to remember.” </p><p>At his back, Sylvain laughs, a sharp exhalation. “I think I’m going to like it here with you, Claude.” </p><p>“Good.” Claude’s hand slides into Sylvain’s. He laces their fingers together, guides him up the stairs, and leads him up into the world above.</p><p>Up into their new life. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just in case you missed it, you can see Omo's fantastic art of this fic <a href="https://twitter.com/matrihomies/status/1325201634109100032">here</a> ;)</p><p>If you enjoyed this and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or would like to get to know me, please check out my twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r">@tim3hopp3r</a>.</p><p>And if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right <a href="https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554">here</a>. Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥</p><p>Thank you so much for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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